


Palimpsest

by Solitary_Shadow



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Appendixes Included, Dreams, East Germany, Essay Included, Existential Angst, Existential Crisis, Fear of Flying, GDR, Hurt/Comfort, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Mid-life Crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28170816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/Solitary_Shadow
Summary: Oliver Riedel has become unstuck in time.[A story about the recording process ofRammstein, and the emotions it stirred up in two men.Oliver/Richard, Olli POV. It is,veryabstractly, about 'Deutschland'. Includes references and an essay.]
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Oliver Riedel
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	1. Palimpsest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wahnsinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wahnsinn/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not know any of the members of Rammstein, this is strictly a work of fiction and I do not claim to represent true aspects of their lives in this story.**
> 
> It's been a long time. I have missed you all very much.

**Palimpsest - A Rammstein Fanfiction**

\--------------------------

Rising from disturbed dreams, Olli wakes to find Richard sitting at his bedside, a concerned look on his face. "You've been asleep for sixteen hours," he says quietly, "tossing and turning. Like you were in pain. What's wrong?"

"I..."

But Olli isn't in pain. He moves an arm, the other, his leg – sits up, confirming it has nothing to do with the body. Richard's gaze follows him. Olli wants to reassure him, maybe talk about his dreams, except he's not good at remembering them. There's just the malaise this one left behind and it will linger.

The fading sunset alerts him to the hour, casting haloes behind them. Richard holds his hand.

"I..." He barely recognizes his voice when he speaks. "I don't... know."

\-----

Oliver Riedel has become unstuck in time.

It happened slowly. He knows now what prompted it, and that it began after their 2016 tour, but that’s hindsight; by the time he realized he was unstuck, the detachment had crept into every corner of his life. Soon it'll be two years since it started, Rammstein will be in the studio again, and he doesn't know what to do with himself.  
He was forty-five then. He inches closer to fifty without a solution. The irony of it is that Olli was looking forward to this part of his life, because everyone else in Rammstein had a funky time when they entered their fifties – writing books, filming, making _more_ music, etcetera. When the dreams began, he even welcomed it: _aha, my mid-life crisis came knocking at last!_ But what arrived was not a crisis, rather images, and questions to go with them.

Olli rubs his forehead. The dreams don't come every night, but they tire him greatly. He pours a glass of water and leans against the headboard, sipping with his eyes closed. Outside the night is still, vast, like the words of a poet he knows.

It's the drafting sessions that did it. Absolutely.

Other people have inspiring dreams, or don't dream at all. Olli dreams about past lives. In a very real sense, it's all because Rammstein didn't follow their usual process for this album. Normally they create the musical framework for each song, then the whole business sits with Till while he drafts the lyrics. And they'd have let Till get on with it this time, too, except some of the songs they decided on are about Germany, and they all have _so much_ to say about Germany. _Their_ Germany, past and present, looking warily into the future. The issue is that they didn't all live in the same Germany, and deep in the recesses of Olli's memory, _their_ lives and _his_ life have begun to mingle. It sounds absurd, but it’s true. He was eighteen when the Wall fell, ready for the new world the moment it showed up on his doorstep.

"Thank God it happened when it did." Richard said once. "At least one of us didn't suffer."

Olli was glad too. Lately, he doesn't know.

He can’t go back to sleep. But Olli never made much of his failures: he lies there, eyes shut, until he hears the first birdsong. Then he slips out of bed, drapes a bathrobe around his tall slim frame, and tiptoes out of the room.  
He's at Schneider's place. Him and Richard. Olli can hear they’re awake, from the voices in the living room. He wonders briefly if he should go back, but from the abrupt pause in the conversation he can tell they heard his footsteps, and then it's just so goddamned _awkward_ to about-face that he must carry on. He enters the kitchen and brings down the muesli. Cherry and hazelnut. He stares into the blue glazed bowl.

Schneider almost found out months ago. The timing was awful. They’d been reminiscing on Feeling B; at one point Olli distinctly remembered going to fetch a cake for Flake's birthday, then meeting Aljoscha at the same cafe, dressed in a pirate outfit. But when he related this, Schneider had looked at him most oddly. "That didn't happen to you. That happened to me. You and Paul got the champagne and I got the cake, hazelnut _Baumkuchen_ , I remember."

He shook his head sadly. "And it was the _Konditorei_ opposite the cafe I went to, not the cafe itself. I was waiting for them to wrap up the cake when I saw Josch across the road; he looked so tired, it always haunted me."

This was correct. It'd happened only a week before Aljoscha's passing.  
Naturally, Olli was mortified, and has since avoided unraveling his memory in front of others.

So no one knows, not even Schneider, who really could've taken offense. It helps that Olli can't remember much from a life before Rammstein. Everyone else has rich tales to share, some silly and some daredevil, but Olli doesn't; his identity is that of the grounding presence, pulling the other five together. He's the one everyone wanted to work with, he's heard no end of compliments on that regard, but he can barely remember being in the middle of it. Ironic, given that he's always been a little set apart from the others: he travels alone, sleeps alone, he was his own island in the sea of his bandmates. The treehouse in California, his reluctance to be on a plane, the padlocked journal of his life.

"Hey."

He turns around. Cat-eyed Richard stands by the door. His hair is mussed, and the kitchen lights aren't on, so he's backlit from the bulb in the corridor – nevertheless he is alert, even gorgeous, and he looks at Olli with such a twinkle in his eye. " _Morgen_ ," Olli murmurs, completing the ritual, and Richard gives him a smile.

Even in the blueness of dawn he radiates warmth.

"Heard you moving around earlier. Schneider couldn't sleep." Richard's voice is hoarse for the want of a caffeine. Olli watches his nimble fingers reach for the coffee press, then hastily remembers the milkbottle paused halfway to his own bowl. "Hope we didn't wake you."

"He's not the only one. I was already awake."

"Ah?" But Richard's curiosity goes deeper. He contemplates how many cups he needs for a moment – one, two, three? – then looks up. "Have you been sleeping well otherwise?"

He woke Olli up that first time. Olli wonders, then, if he can trust Richard with his problem: it's been over a year, and a lot has changed, but there are things that remain steadfast. Richard is hearty, vain, an open book – but by _himself_ , not at the expense of his colleagues. He’s interested in everything everyone has to say, but is content to let deep waters lie still.

He wouldn't laugh. Wouldn't tell. He might even help sieve out Olli’s memories from others. But regardless of his merits, Olli is a very private person, and it's hard for him to speak plainly. He grapples with words, desperately holding onto the moment Richard's question left open for them. In that time, the guitarist has brewed the coffee, and put three cups and saucers together. Finally Olli manages to blurt out halfway through a pour: "Do you remember when the three of us lived together, what you said to me back then?"

The pour ceases. Richard's hand stills in mid-air. He lifts his head, staring straight ahead of him, his back turned to Olli.

He doesn't say anything for a very long time.

Olli stirs his muesli. His hands are shaking. The spoon clinks all over the bowl; he's about to give up when Richard turns around. "Is that why you've been sleeping poorly?" He asks. When Olli shakes his head, a gentle curiosity glitters in his eyes. "I remember. But that was before our lives improved, right? Were you thinking about the East again?"

Olli looks at him helplessly.

"I can't stop thinking about other people thinking about the East."

It's a good thing he's with Richard.  
_What's wrong with that_ , Flake might say, (n)ostalgia misting his eyes. _We'll talk of more pleasant things_ , Paul might chuckle, before launching into another tale about the East. Schneider may or may not take offense (as stated previously), and Olli's not sure if Till would respond at all, for he's always taken the weight of the world as it comes. Their perspectives are valid, but they might miss that for _Olli_ , this is incredibly weird and out of character.

But Richard gets it. Richard, who treats his life in the East distinctly from himself – especially this year, when he crossed the half-century mark. Olli wonders briefly what his mid-life crisis was like, indeed if he had one; Richard doesn't keep secrets, only delay the truth. But he doesn't get to dwell on it, as a cup filled with strong coffee is set beside him. "Thank... you."

" _Bitte_." A smile tickles Richard's eyes. "Schneider's waiting, but do tell, even if briefly. Have we talked about the GDR too much recently?"

"We spent thirty years reminiscing over it. No reason to react like this now." Olli frowns delicately over the steam. "It's the... situation. We're not just talking about that Germany, but every Germany that's ever been, and we want to do it as _Rammstein_. Not an interview, or an autobiography-" they smile wistfully, thinking of _Mix Mir Einen Drink_ and Flake's newfound writing finesse, "- but a collaborative statement. Telling stories over a drink is one thing, analysing our lives is another. Sometimes it's like I lived in your heads."

Richard ties this instantly to Olli's lack of sleep. "You dream about the things we talk about?"

Olli hesitates for a second. "When they don't keep me awake."

"I wonder if there's a pattern to the things that impress upon you. Mind telling me some?"

But that's an ask too far. Olli clams up.  
Because about living in their heads, he meant it seriously. Olli dreams not as a listener, but _through_ the eyes of his bandmates; he not only internalizes their experiences, but assumes much about what they thought, and that shames him. He fears they’ll think he sees them as entertainment, playing pretend with their joy and grief and distress. After a lifetime of privacy, to know so much about another is disturbing. To know the other is to know too much about one's own place in the world.

And in some way, Richard understands too. "Whenever you're ready," he says, squeezing the bassist's shoulder. "But if we do _anything_ to make you uncomfortable – you don't need to say how or why – prod me. I'll make sure it stops."

"Yeah." Olli breathes out. "I… don't want this to go on for so long there _is_ a pattern. If that makes sense."

"Absolutely." Richard takes up the coffees. "Don't be a stranger. I'll be waiting."

Then he departs, leaving Olli to mull over his words.  
That wasn’t commonsense German. _Olli, act not 'wie ein Fremder', like a stranger_ : the tortured version of _talk to me, give me a shout, let me hear from you_. He'd dismiss it as one of Richard's bizarre Anglicisms, but the word clings to his brain.

_Und wenn die Sonne untergeht_  
_Und man vor Ausländerinnen steht..._

Not _Ausländer_ , but _Fremder_. Not _Ossis_ nor _Wessis_ , but a deeper gulf closer to home. Olli stares into the void of his coffee.

The sun is coming up.

\-----

There's something starkly quantifying about memory.  
One story there, one story here. Two Germanies, six lives, eleven songs.  
Reach in and pluck one out, like chocolate from a box. But every fragment, space or time aside, is part of a texture, silken and glossy like a light upon fading things.

Olli sleeps veiled by the shroud of other lives.

\-----

He's running. It's dark. His breath stings in his chest; a light flashes and he ducks, loses his footing, and falls sideways into the ditch. Thankfully a patch of overgrown grass shields his fall. He curls up, pulling his backpack (he didn't even _know_ he had a backpack) over his head, then stays until light stops prodding his eyelids. Only then does he feel his way back to the surface.

Just headlights. Far in the distance, he sees a lone car driving away. He rights himself and exhales pearly white, the night beautifully clear above him. Less than ten kilometres ahead is the Austria-Hungary border. He's surprised that he knows this, even more that this knowledge puts him in mortal peril, and that he ought to pass through _quickly_. He takes a step, then another, then falls face-first against the back of a sofa.

Olli gasps. He sits up, startled. The cushion under his head falls on the floor, and his limbs are askew, refusing to be contained in such a tight space any further. For one panicked second he doesn't recognize where he is, but then he remembers: a room in the Studios de la Fabrique, writing desk and soft chairs included, with other eyes watching him nearby.

_God damn it._

Olli raises his head. Comes face to face with Flake, sitting at the writing desk. "You're..." He falters, his own voice echoing strangely in his head. Flake's expression doesn't change at all. "You're alive."

"Am I?" Flake asks impassively, in his usual style; this brings Olli back to earth, but also kind of fucks him up a bit, no lie. But he does come to sit beside him, patting the back of Olli's hand in comfort. "I should hope so, Oliver. Here, let me."

There's a rustle from the other end of the room. Olli notices in time to see Richard join them both. It doesn't look as if he's been here for long and he possesses nothing to justify his presence, unlike Flake, who has a massive stack of papers on the desk. "You're so pale," Richard murmurs, adding his touch on top of Flake's. Olli doesn't know how to handle this. "Did you have a bad dream?"

He feels heat rushing to his cheeks. There's no way he can admit he dreamt about Richard's escape from the East, much less through _Richard's_ perspective, as if he's entitled to speak for him. This is getting out of hand. "I think I dreamt I was dying."

"We're all dying." Flake says dryly. Richard shoots him a glance. "But it doesn’t happen that quickly, I think. You're fine."

Olli gives him a dull look. "Thanks."

" _Kein Problem_." A little smile tickles the keyboardist's mouth then. "I've some cognac with me. Want a sip?"

Cognac sounds fine. Cognac sounds lovely. Olli says as much, and Flake pours him an ounce in an egg-shaped snifter that sits snugly in the hand. He resumes his seat and Richard kneels on the floor. "I got you the same for your birthday, so: shame on me, if I chose poorly. But I'd rather you be honest."

"Aha." It's only two days away. Rammstein are here for a month, so he can't celebrate with family, but friends will look after him. Olli takes his sweet time warming up the drink; he only sips when even Flake turns restless, to say nothing of Richard, who's read the label twice and urged him to have a taste ten times in those five minutes. "Gorgeous. Strong." A deeper sip to savour. "For honesty you'll have my praise, Flake. Thank you."

A crescent moon of a smile drifts to Flake's lips. "Come here."

Olli scoots close. Flake hugs him and he leans into it, appreciating the cool hand on his back. Flake rests his head on his shoulder. He closes his eyes and slips off his glasses as an afterthought, the frames dangling between his fingers, their lenses casting two silverscale glimmers on the wall. For all his apparent indifference, he'd never truly want to distress Olli with talk of life and death. "What about me?" Richard is saying in the background, tickling Olli with wry fondness. "Woe is the man who neither drinks nor owns a cognac, I thought we were a collective around here."

"I have no more glasses." Olli starts, realizing that Flake intended the cognac for himself, to settle down with over his papers as the evening grew dim. But Flake's grip remains reassuring. "Besides, Olli's special. I've been reading my old manuscript all evening: I barely remember writing some of this, but it's all true. Painting nudes. My poor cat, may it rest in peace. Flight phobia. I don't know why I thought people needed to know some of those things, but it's incredible, the things that pour from the heart when no one's watching. It seems Olli and I were looking at the sleep-side of our lives tonight."

Richard counters sweetly that he's _Flake Lorenz_ , of course people want to know, which Flake doubts. Olli cranes his head to look at the papers on the desk. Flake's original manuscript for _Der Tastenficker_ , and letters from his publisher. It seems they're preparing another edition of his autobiography, perhaps to go with his newest book, which only came out months ago; makes sense he was sifting through his old notes, looking for something he might add. Olli has only glanced through Flake's latest book, as he's shy to read about himself, but one part stirs now from memory: Flake's recollection of the band's time in Argentina, where they had so much fun that 'Olli forgot even his own birthday'. This didn’t bother Olli at the time, nor anyone else – but Flake realized in hindsight, or the _sleep-side_ , as he calls it.

Flake has never forgotten since. (The cognac in Olli's hand, as warm as his pulse.) It's stunning how much he remembers, how free he is with it. Flake has a relationship with his past that Olli only envies from a distance; for a man so private, he has made much of his life public property, truly a citizen of the GDR. Only Richard is as open as he is, and from rather different directions.

Flake's heart is of the written word, Richard speaks out loud from the soul. Flake's narrative is singular and constant, Richard synthesizes several at once, uttering the truth at many angles. He and Olli might not be so different, should they meet in dreams. Meanwhile, the men have reached the end of their argument. "Well, they do say: _der Ossi tickt anders_." Richard sighs, slumping in playful defeat beside Olli. "Will you think I'm special on my birthday?"

"I'll have to."

"I'm putting in an advance order for Kirschwasser."

"Accepted." Flake says dryly. Even so, he's entertained enough to pour Richard the cognac, although he has to get another glass: "They’re washing all the snifters. Hope you don't mind."

"Doesn't matter." Richard leans back, swirling his wineglass leisurely in his hand. "The vessel isn't important, as long as the essence is the same."

Those words stay with Olli for a very long time.

\-----

It's the little details that stick.

Objectively, Olli knows more about big historical events. Germania, the Holy Roman Empire, the failed Republic and the eternally-shameful war: _here she is, accursed Germany!_ Outside life rehashes those events all the time. But as they discuss _Deutschland_ (song/homeland) Olli's mind is full of canteens, Milka bars in Intershops, the crinkling pages of a _Pionierausweis_. It's all familiar, but he never sees himself there; it's always someone else, while he observes from the sleep-side. There are many Germanies but this one is theirs.

Where is he in it?

\-----

One midnight in early May, Olli runs out of the studio building. Clothes are torn off as he goes, before he hurls himself into the swimming pool; he goes under, then surfaces, gasping for breath. He has always felt most at home within water.

(That is to say: not within himself.)

Olli was swept out to sea, once upon a time.  
It was in Malta. They wanted to record _Sehnsucht_. At a pier off Anchor Bay they stood, admiring a movie set across the waters, then a tidal wave washed him out by the ankles. The water wasn't deep, even with riptides swirling about him; Olli simply swam across the entire bay and glided onto the opposite shore, both thumbs up, to the resounding applause of the beachgoers and his bandmates. He dunks his head to remember again. But the water is icy here, a far cry from the silken waves of Malta. Nothing is right when he tries to remember.

It's crazy. This is his _own_ memory. This neither happened in the GDR, nor did Olli find it troubling at the time. Olli's coming to realize he's not so much alarmed by events, but rather by how easily _he_ gets caught up in the ripples of his life. The moment he gets swept up in something, the entire pattern of his life is tossed in the air.  
Lost, in his bandmates' lives. Nostalgia, because Flake and Paul reminisce into the night. Nightmares, like tonight, because he critiques Till's lyrics. (The man can spin a yarn like the things that go bump in the night, and he does, and they do.) Rammstein, because his roommates took the gamble – Richard and Schneider, side by side with Olli, gazing together into an uncertain future.

Everything he's done has been like this. He's not in charge of his own life.

Except with water. Whenever he steps onto a surfboard, or sinks into a pool, Olli feels like he's his own. He clings to that feeling now: he swims back and forth, seizing great armfuls of the black substance of some other country's night, feeling it trickle away between his fingers. The cold numbs him and the repetitive movement detaches him from everything, and in that void he hopes to find himself. There’s a conclusion in there he can't quite grasp, or else, refuses -

\- there's a light ahead.

Before he can think about it, he’s already propelled itself forwards. He swims across the pool in broad strokes, hurrying towards the light; he's grasped the edge, and dragged himself halfway up, before he recognizes what's going on.

Richard is standing there. There's a lighter in his hand, lid flicked back, its tiny flame swaying in the breeze. He has a cigarette in his mouth, but it's unlit, an issue he doesn't address. The night drowns out the blueness of his eyes, but they’re fixed on Olli all the same. He says nothing, does nothing, even as Olli wades out of the pool naked; he merely holds up his flame, a tiny beacon of starlight, as ardently as he would an offering.

Olli walks past him, collecting his clothes. His pale form cuts eerily through the darkness. Richard's gaze follows him. Olli doesn't look back.

He shuts the door, then leans against it, face buried in his hands.

\-----

"When you're older you'll go away from here," Richard told him once. They lived together then: three men in a newly-deserted flat, looking out to the rubble of the Wall, the West gaping past it. "I don't know about the rest of us, but you'll go, I'm sure."

Thirty years later, Olli's thinking back to it again. "Where will I go?" He'd asked, and Richard had smiled thinly. Back then he was often tired, leaving at dawn and coming back late at night; it took him that long, every day, to wrangle something for either his dreams or daily life. Often they didn't overlap. Schneider was prickly and anxious, Olli quiet and calm. He lit Richard a cigarette, watching the cherry glow. "Where?"

Richard laughed hoarsely. Ran his fingers through his hair, which looked more deflated in those days. "Where they don't hang pictures of Honecker on the wall." He'd said, then took a long drag. His fingers, so long and fine. "Where they don't even know who Honecker _is_."

Olli found this doubtful. Every school, hotel, and town hall had possessed a picture of Honecker; many were destroyed after the Wall fell, but some clung on, fearful of the new life. One could leave the East to escape his heavy-rimmed stare, but to where _nobody_ knew his name? That ruled out all of Germany and the ex-socialist nations. Olli's life had barely begun. To depart for a blank slate seemed like a pie-in-the-sky dream – a denial of what little he had.

But he got away. Richard also helped with that. "We're starting a band," he'd said after a trip to Schwerin, guitar lopsided on his shoulder. Olli was the only one home. "Will you join?"

By then Olli too had begun carving his own path. "But I'm with the Inchties."

A more successful group, with experienced members, probably a brighter future. " _Mit mir_." Richard had insisted nonetheless, holding out his hand. His long fingers, calloused with effort. "Come with me."

They all went. Beyond Honecker, beyond Germany, into greatness.  
But Olli didn't do it knowing what would happen. He was no grand rebel. Like many children of the GDR he prioritized the collective, and he was still entrenched in the economy of _Ostpunk_ when he took Richard's hand: _if you don't have something, I'll give it to you, if I don't have something, you'll bring it to me._ Everyone shared everything, down to the musicians themselves. A guitarist here, a bassist there. Olli thought this was just another of those swaps. And when it became clear that wasn't the case – that they were moving further away, into something new and exciting and-

_So gefährlich fremde Noten._

Strange songs, strange people, a strange gamble. To know about the Other is disturbing.

Where would he be now, had he not taken Richard's hand?  
How far would he have gotten without Rammstein? What memories would he have made?  
Would they have been as vivid as his bandmates' memories, so life-changing, so strange?

\-----

"Say, Olli." A voice purrs from the doorway. "Give me a hand?"

It's the last week recording. Everyone's pleased, but burnt out. Olli looks up from his bass. "What do you need?"

Richard shakes two tiny bottles of nail polish playfully in his direction. "I'd be much obliged."

A tone used to wheedle someone for a favour. And damn it all, it _works._ "Let's go."

They cross the property to find a quiet place. Flake's writing in the first room; Schneider's at the dining table, giving them a lazy wave as he nibbles his salad; Paul's guitar echoes distantly in the loft of the studio. Till's in the pool, doing laps under a crystal sky. Richard pauses briefly, taking in the sight, but leads the way again without comment.

He hasn't said anything about that night. Olli sometimes doubts it happened at all. As they enter the Mill, he wonders if they'll talk about it today. Their footsteps echo along the stone walls, filling him with odd reverence.

" _Komm_." Richard pulls out a chair, then moves to the opposite side. " _Setz dich._ "

Olli takes it. The air feels vaguely confrontational, but devoid of thunder. "Right. What shall I do for you?" Richard smirks and fans out his hands, palms down. "Just paint them?"

"Check if they're good enough first?"

Impeccable, nothing new for Richard. Cuticles cleaned, nails trimmed and filed. He approves, and Richard puts four little bottles on the table – black, red, top coat, base coat. Olli gives the latter a shake.

He doesn't usually paint nails, his or someone else's. His entire existence is his aesthetic. But he knows how, and he has the steady hand Richard wants in a manicurist; in quick strokes he has the other's nails coated, and Richard looks well pleased. He chuckles at each cold touch of the brush, curling his fingers like a cat. "Hold still," Olli feels comfortable enough to scold, but Richard only grins. He takes up the black bottle, then pauses. "Black on the left side or red?"

Richard's laugh is odd. "Of course the left is red."

Olli takes embarrassingly long to recognize the pun. His cheeks burn the same shade, and he avoids looking up, disconnected thoughts running through his mind. But he has to eventually; Richard stares unfailingly into his eyes, his own calm but captivating.

"Is there," Olli falters, "something... you want to tell me?"

Richard is direct when he needs to be. "Does the East still keep you awake?"

Olli doesn’t answer. Starts applying the black.  
Halfway through the second nail, he nods. But he's dreaming about _more_ than just the East nowadays, and he's trying to explain this when he catches Richard's expression: blue eyes staring down, the tail end of that odd smile twisting his lips. The face he wears when he perceives the world is about to suplex him into oblivion. Olli isn't sure whether to take this personally, as it's just the two of them, after all.

"Sometime ago I asked you a question." He finally says. His smile is more personable, consciously so – Olli doesn't buy it. "About what you see in dreams."

But Richard doesn't press the issue. He stares at his nails, each coat still thin and see-through. Olli's picked up the red again when Richard suddenly speaks, in a flood of breathless litany: "I wasn't going to say anything. I _wasn't._ But I haven't been able to stop thinking about it, thinking about you, suffering because one fool said something stupid. It's like you lived in our heads, you say; what’s it like to live in yours? What does it _really_ achieve, digging up the past? It's unbearable how those things linger. You think you can transfer it to a page, or sing it out of you, but you can't. Everything we experienced happens all at once inside us."

"Risch."

"I'm in a _mood_ , Oliver. I didn't mean to be, but I'm in a _mood_ and you have to put up with me." His voice echoes fourfold in the room and Olli feels like he's falling under a spell. "That night – you looked so _lost_ , I don't know if you realize how long you were in there. I was watching for almost forty minutes, thinking – did we say something to fuck you up, did I do it? I-"

" _Risch._ " Olli implores. Richard makes as if to cover his face, but remembers he can't; he inhales shakily as Olli pats the back of his hand. "Nobody fucked me up. I'm the only one tormenting myself, and not always about the East..."

Richard breathes out. "Ah?"

So it all comes out. This isn't how Olli imagined the dam would break, but strangely enough, he finds it easier to talk once it has. Two whole coats of polish dry on Richard's nails as he listens intently; Olli talks about Schneider, being unstuck in time, not wanting to infringe upon the memories of others. The bay in Malta. Richard's speech about Honecker, which earns him a grin. "I'm looking back at myself." Olli concludes, gently fanning Richard's nails. "Don't we all have those moments? After this stage of Rammstein – after the album, the music videos, tours – I'll be _fifty years old_. More than halfway through my biological life, about halfway through my creative life. Not the most novel realization in the world, but it is food for thought."

"A mid-life crisis?"

Olli could laugh, hearing it straight from Richard's mouth. " _Ja_. Don’t worry I'm frightened about the East, I lived there. I know what it was like. It's just my turn to process what that means to me, along with everything else I've seen."

Richard frowns. "I'm not concerned you don't know enough about the GDR. I'm scared of ruining the good memories you have."

"Scared." Olli repeats. A curious choice in words. "Existentially?"

Richard looks like he's been punched into the ground.

That's the thing about Richard. He's easy to talk to, but now and then one will touch something glassy in his heart, and he'll shatter. "I don't... I always..." Richard stammers, then abruptly _slaps_ his palms against his face. Olli cries out, mortified, but the nails aren't ruined; Richard's hanging on, somehow. "I don't know what you must've thought about us during those sessions. When you're shooting the shit you have the benefit of doubt, and in interviews – how often have they misquoted us, or run like hell with something we don't even remember saying? But this album's different. It's not a nostalgia trip in a _Kneipe_ , you get me?"

He shakes his head. "It's easy to say: _those times weren't so bad, we turned out well in the end_. But I remember a lot of the bad. Things we'd rather forget. How we the kitchen dissidents huddled around the dining table, filling the air with smoke. A radio on the table, everyone taking turns with the dial, then putting a pillow on top in case the Stasi bugged it. Our _Ostpunk_ days, the happiest days of our lives – but also the informers in our groups, smiling in our faces, then telling the cops about it later. But we'd get in more trouble for rooting them out. So we did nothing – we even passed them back and forth, because hell, they were still musicians! Equal opportunity for all! What can you do, but weep..."

His hands are shaking uncontrollably. Olli makes as if to stand. "I'm fine," Richard insists, a wild little laugh escaping him. "Please... three coats."

"..."

He clacks his nails against each other. They're dry, so Olli must continue. He feels like he's being held hostage, but there's a shared sense of catharsis, somehow.

"I'm glad I learned from those experiences. But these weren't transcendent events that changed my very being, they were just bullshit, awful situations." Richard shivers, watching Olli apply the last coat of red. "Oh, Olli... how would I have learnt to trust again, if not for Rammstein? We hid ourselves in every nook and cranny, but someone would root you out anyway. Taken from your bed at night. Policeman thumping on your door because the IM next door doesn't like the look of you: because you coughed too loud one time, because you stay up making jewelry all night, because you get too many _Westpakets_. _My_ children are hungry; can't let _that_ motherfucker enjoy his Western chocolates!"

Olli's hand is trembling. He hesitates, then moves back.  
This time, Richard straight up _grabs_ him. His left hand darts out and pins Olli's right hand down, almost knocking the nail polish over.

"That kind of knowledge kills you, Olli. Don't go looking for it."

His fingers retain an odd crumpled angle, unable to curl, in case he ruins the polish.

"You can't bear to live with others once you discover those things."

One wouldn't think this is a firm grip, but Olli knows otherwise. Richard is _astonishingly_ strong. He always remembers too late the man used to wrestle. He looks down at their joined hands.

None of this is new. Olli's shaken, but it's the emotion of it; he already knows how Richard fled, how he relied on the mercy of niche-societies. How the Stasi tried to blackmail him into becoming an informer, like so many others of that era, only rescinding because his _own_ friends ratted him out as unreliable. Olli _doesn't_ know what it feels to be betrayed like that, nor does he want to know. He sticks to facts instead of platitudes. "You never looked at your Stasi files."

Richard's grip slackens. "I couldn't. I just couldn't."

"Were you tempted recently?"

"No. Friendships in the East then were tight, but high-risk, high-return. I don't begrudge whoever told on me – who knows what _they_ were being threatened with? – but I can't say I forgive. What would I even say? _Congratulations, you've justified my fear-_ "

On goes the top coat, glossy and transparent, sealing all beneath it. Red and black, Richard, their conversation. Richard shudders.

" _Wir sind Fremde._ "

Finally Olli understands. _Don't be a stranger._  
_Fremdheit_ , the estrangement of _Ich_ and the friendly _Du_. Richard's greatest fear, yet also his truthful past. _You have justified my fear_ : a once-friend becoming suddenly unknown, not unexpectedly so. A _Wir_ comprised of anything but. It is disturbing to be wrong about the Other. Olli is validated, and so sad, to know Richard feels this way.

"But life was somehow worse after the Wall fell, if only briefly. That's what keeps _me_ awake." Richard is properly calming down. He blows on his nails, does the contact test again, and pats Olli's arm listlessly. "I won't harp on about that... you were with me, there's nothing I can say you wouldn't know better. I've already said too much-"

"- I'm the one who-"

"- no, no. Forgive me my... my _Sprachlosigkeit_. I always worry about what we're saying, but I like to say what I can." A trembling smile. Olli moves insistently to the other's side, and Richard doesn't stop him. "Don't take me too seriously. I'm a truth-teller, but my truths aren't always useful, or relevant. You see, I blab everything..." He laughs sadly. "Don't linger on our regrets. If to you the terrible wasn't terrible, we’ve no right to make it terrible for you."

Richard was very protective of him when they lived together. It’s been decades, but it's like there's been no water under their bridge; it's like he still sees Olli as a fresh-faced teenager. He appreciates the concern, but doesn't want to be treated like a child, either. "I'm nearly fifty."

"I _am_ fifty." Richard returns. Olli's never felt the weight of the term _mid-life crisis_ so intensely. How arbitrary, yet binding, those signposts of life. "Time never stops. The least I can do is to make it hurt less."

There's nothing he can say to that. He has to let Richard go. As the man hurries downstairs, his nails throw quick silvery glimmers against the wall; Olli stays behind, gazing at pale stone, opalite in the sun. Iridescent things look like little screams bursting into reality.

\-----

They don't talk for a while afterwards. The recording sessions have ended and the band's in Berlin, but one-to-one meetings are scarce, the album taking priority. (Olli hates marketing preparations: putting their blood, sweat, and tears into something original, only for capital to come for its slice of the pie.) It's a relief knowing Richard's in his corner, but Olli longs for a follow-up. He now regards his dreams with more peace than before – is _Richard_ all right?

But nothing. He only gets to hear about Richard because Paul calls up with the nonchalant words: "I hear Risch spooked you."

Olli's more spooked that he knows. Paul's laugh is scratchy on the line. "His own words. I've known for a while. He came to me most penitent, and… ah, agitated."

"He asked you to mediate?"

"So he _did_ spook you?" Olli blushes. Paul chuckles as if he's seen it. "Tell you what, it's almost his birthday. Let's practice a toast for the man."

So Olli visits. Paul greets him heartily. The world around them has forgotten hospitality is sacred, but Paul still remembers. He's a model host, with hot drinks and refreshments always at hand; yet even among those comforts Paul is a _kitchen dissident_ , as Richard calls them, from top to bottom. Cupboards stuffed with cans. Rustic ornaments, chosen to rebel against his minimalist kitchen. How he cocks his head at the phone sometimes, or the radio, eyes glittering like a jaybird: _süße Träume, Kamarad, or whoever's listening in!_

They sit around the kitchen table. "Coffee, cream, sugar. Cheesecake, made by yours truly... and sitting opposite me, the one who'll eat it all. Dark chocolate cherry. _Bon appetit_."

Richard's favourite flavours. "I can't eat the _whole thing_ by myself."

"You injure my inner chef," Paul groans, but winks. All good hosts are whimsical, east or west of the border. They compromise on Olli taking some home, then Paul sits back.

"Right then. Risch."

It soon becomes clear Richard confessed only to his own outburst, and has been too embarrassed to approach Olli since. "I told him it was best to just reach out. I assume he didn't offend you so much you don't want to see him."

"Not at all. It seemed he was bursting to talk."

"He was?" And there's that look Paul sometimes has, canny and inquisitive, boring right into the soul. It's gone in a flash. "Risch has a lot of guilt about things beyond his control. The GDR... Perestroika, Gorby, where would we be without it all..." He quirks his head, giving Olli a knowing smile. _"Nu, ty ne s Rikhardom razgovarival s tekh por, kak my vernulis'?_ "

" _Ähm_." Olli understood, but struggles to respond. His Russian is limited to his schooldays and he was not a good student. " _Poka nyet_. I thought I’d give him time, but… perhaps not?"

"Give _him_ time." Not an instruction, but a quote. "Tell me about yourself."

For all the awkwardness with Richard, this is the right time to open up to his bandmates.

It's easy to talk to Paul. It helps Olli and Richard already talked it out, but _Paul_ has a will of iron; he's not easily surprised, and he's already come to terms with his past. He doesn't add to Olli's confession, but considers it carefully, objective eyes between sips of coffee.

"You and Richard share an unease," he says, "over what you remember, what it means for you to remember, and what’s appropriate to remember. You both struggle to talk about this. And when you do, the type and depth of memories you have are different – you with ours, him with his own."

Olli sags with relief. "You got it."

He couldn't have summarized it better himself: what was self-examination is now also the examination of his relationship with Richard. His closest confidante, and companion in lost time. He'd applaud if he didn't have a hand full of cheesecake. But Paul remains deep in thought, measuring what he can and can't advise on: Olli's state of mind is as real as Richard's, but both are inaccessible to him. "That's a lot to process. Did Risch – well, help?"

Olli divides his cheesecake into meticulous squares, focused on the act more than eating it.  
Only now does he accept that he and Richard were afraid of each other. Richard, because he (in some way) craved Olli's approval, but hated to make him a stranger; Olli, because he didn’t know what was missing, but felt the missing-ness of the missing. But their fear is not one that chills the spirit, rather the desire to live more vicariously than ever.

"He has a lot of guilt, yes. But I was just sleepwalking around La Fabrique, losing my mind. I'd still be doing that if he hadn't opened up to me. Shown me I was worth opening up to."

"He didn't ruin your good memories."

"No." Olli's just sorry Richard didn't have many in the GDR. "He didn't."

Paul looks as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. "I can't control what you do," he chuckles, draining his coffee. "But it'll do him good to hear that. You be sure to remember."

Olli asks what he means, but Paul's already retreated behind a veil of mysticism, twiddling his fingers gladly. His timing doesn't disappoint. Halfway through his cup the doorbell rings, which he _shoots out_ of the kitchen to address. Olli nearly chokes as he hears the euphoric greeting: "Scholle, my _dear_ fellow, you're _just_ in time for coffee. Come in."

(Paul takes his role of resident mediator very seriously. He should've expected this.)

Richard gets the deer-in-the-headlights look the moment he enters the kitchen. Paul continues to ramble pleasantly in the background, which prevents him from freaking out; by then, Olli's collected himself enough to offer a tiny smile and a wave.  
Paul pours him the last of the coffee. With a flimsy excuse (" _You_ need more drinks, _I_ need another pot – let me get one!"), he skips out of the kitchen; they both understand he's gone for as long as they need. Richard smiles, the sunlight pale on his cheek.

"I asked him to text if he heard from you." His voice is that of an insomniac, hoarse and faint, halfway to the sleep-side of things. "Didn't expect a tea party. I can go if you're-"

" _Mit mir._ " Olli extends his hand. "Stay."

(No Honecker on _Paul's_ wall. No pillows on _his_ radio.)

Richard wavers, then touches the familiar words, his palm warm on Olli's own.

Side by side they sit, not looking at one another, but sharing a direction. They sip coffee. Soon a spot of pink returns to Richard's cheek; he glances at Olli, and lowers his eyes bashfully.  
Looks like it's Olli's turn to speak. He's not one for debate, nor does he expect Richard to be vulnerable for him – not immediately, anyway. "Paul invited me to work on a toast," he says, brushing his thumb against Richard's. The nail polish he helped apply is chipping at the edges, an aching reminder of time’s passage. "For your birthday. I can't spoil any mutual efforts, but I have sentiments you may want to hear."

"..."

"You didn't spook me, Risch. You didn't ruin anything. The past is a foreign country: my past is what it is, sometimes it burns, sometimes it numbs, like a shell of ice. Ultimately, I'm glad we talked." Olli cuts Richard a slice of cheesecake, and picks up a fork. "Thanks for trusting me. For anchoring me to the waking world. I'm only sorry for the times you had to weep."

Richard smiles softly. He leans against Olli's shoulder.

"I have missed you so very much," he says, and accepts a bite of cheesecake.

\-----

Through the album, the story of their life crystallizes. Richard and Olli throw themselves into the process. "I'd like to go where you go when you're asleep," the guitarist says at one point.

Olli still visits troubling dreams. "I don't think you'd like it there."

"Not alone." Richard acknowledges, lacing his fingers with Olli's. "But I'd be with you."

\-----

Where _does_ the mind go when it's asleep?

_Du lässt die Welt um mich verblassen,_  
_Kann den Blick nicht von dir lassen..._

Rammstein lives again. The album explodes into the charts, carrying their dreams from past and future, a jewel of total time challenging the linear flow of 2019. Olli immerses himself into the tour that follows, feeling like he's home again.

_Und dieses Funkeln deiner Augen_  
_Will die Seele aus mir saugen..._

He no longer confuses whose memory is whose. It's not Germany he thinks about nowadays, nor even his past, but what this process of inquiry has done for him. He's still the same Olli – contemplative, self-contained – and aptly shielded on stage, gazing out through mesh.

Such is life. It has an inside as well as an outside, where events separated by years lie side by side, trickling into each other like a sieve. Emotionally, imaginatively, creatively.  
Art bridges the gap. Art is not timebound. Olli lives in total time.

_Du bist schön, wie ein Diamant,_  
_Schön anzusehen, wie ein Diamant,_  
_Doch bitte lass mich gehen._

He hops back and forth from Germany. He perches with Till and Flake during 'Diamant', breathing in the collective joy of strangers, and thinks about Richard in his fluffy white coat rising behind him. He wonders if Richard thinks about him too, whether he watches him fondly, or like how Till watches diamonds. He'd prefer to be loved, whatever that entails.  
It happens in the UK. Milton Keynes is crammed with traffic after the concert, so the band takes it easy for the night. They'd be hustling to Belgium, yes, but it's the _UK_ ; blink and they'll be in Brussels. Not even Olli fears that flight. There's 'fuck all to do' here (Schneider, quoted verbatim), but they all find something, even as simple as sleeping on the sofa of their suite. It's there Olli wakes at four in the morning, lights dimmed, Till gazing at him from the armchair.

It takes a few seconds for Olli to find words. "Were you watching me sleep?"

"Yes."

Olli feels vaguely completed upon hearing this. He didn't have a nightmare and Till's not Richard, but he doesn't need to be; Olli's always felt morally naked around Till, but tonight, it's more like he came full circle on something midway along the journey of his life. "... Why?"

"You'd vanished so utterly." Till speaks close to tonelessly, but his eyes are bright and intense. Olli gulps, spellbound by his ocean gaze. "Like you were watching something separate from this world, behind closed eyes. I wanted to see what happens between this world and yours."

Stick-figure choreography, it turns out; Olli dreams about _obligations_ too, present, future, whimsical. He's happy to let Till imagine the grandiose. "You can't see my dreams anyway."

"No." Till assents. "But your waking is a common factor between worlds. I can wait for that."

Olli doesn't get to ask what Till got out of seeing him spooked awake. There's a beep at the door; the loud plastic scrape of a key card, and Richard walks in with two iced coffees. "Rise and shine!" He laughs in Olli's direction – then stops. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Till."

"You're up early yourself. Where'd you get that?"

Richard looks flushed, like he's been walking quickly – or _interrupted._ "Wanted a coffee. Only Starbucks is open 24/7 around here, but I'll take it. When did you come back?"

Till grins slyly. There's no mistaking the 'Olli' written on the left-hand cup. " _Ein Kaffee_ , hm?"

Olli could swear Richard’s blush is contagious. "Well, I, uh – um... I... you motherfucker." Richard finally splutters, drawing himself up with great dignity. "Olli was the only one I saw as I left! I couldn't _not_ get him one. I'd have fed you gladly if you'd been similarly, ah, _corporeal_."

Till looks at him dryly. Richard reciprocates.  
The corners of their mouths twitch. A beat, then they suddenly burst into raucous laughter; Till gets up, embracing Richard for a brief moment. "Point taken." He slaps the other's shoulder affectionately. "Like ships passing in the night, we are. Where's this Starbucks, again?"

"Follow the signposts to the Retail Park." Richard hands him a twenty-pound note and two tens, winking at Olli. "Why do the British have fifties if they're not going to _accept_ them? ... Have drinks on me. They had _Stroopwafels_ , get yourself a treat."

Till’s sweet tooth has kicked in, judging by the speed with which he departs. "What if I wasn't awake when you came back?" Olli asks, bemused, as Richard hands him his drink: chocolate mocha, white and fluffy. "Drunk both?"

Cherry mocha for Richard. "Swapped your name with Till's. Come up to the roof with me, it's boiling in here."

Olli agrees: summer is sweltering in the UK. As they leave he asks how Richard would've pulled this switcheroo, to which Richard withdraws a Sharpie from the depths of his pocket. "Hard to change an O to a T, I admit, but the last three are easy. Make the long letters... _longer_."

"Does he even like chocolate mocha?"

"Why wouldn't he. I even asked for sprinkles on top."

" _Typ_." Olli laughs. It's pleasantly cool on the stairwell. "Be serious."

Richard beams at him. "Oh, _Orgien-Olli_ , I've never been serious about anything in my life."

"That's not true and you know it." There's something bubbling up within Richard again. This time, Olli would like to help him properly. "You've something on your mind. What's up?"

Richard rewards him with a smile quite separate from the ones he's shown tonight.  
The bar on the rooftop terrace is closed, but the area itself is available. One sees much from here. They lean against the wall and sip coffee. Richard's hair sways lightly in the breeze. He swirls ice in his cup, and Olli waits.

"Tell me, Oliver." He finally asks. "Have we taken good care of you?"

Olli blinks. "What do you mean?"

"Last year, you were looking back at yourself." Neon from a distant sign catches Richard's lacquered nails. When the guitarist turns around he seems soft, even apologetic. "I wondered what you concluded. What you said about your memories..." He toys with the lid of his coffee. "Out of everyone in Rammstein, you've given the most of your life to it. But there were so many things you didn't get to choose. I worry we neglected you. Dismissed the things you missed out on... that _you'd_ have wanted to remember."

Understanding like an anchor sinks in his heart.

Olli knows how to respond. _No, I signed up for the full experience, good and bad. Besides, we're a collective. Over the years, no individual choice has been more important than another._  
But Richard isn't looking for that. These are not questions he’d normally _want_ answered. He sowed the seeds for Rammstein, he’s tied to it in sickness and in health; it would destroy him to hear anything negative about it, even in implication, from his own bandmate.

He's not waiting for Olli to talk about the band. He wants Olli to talk about _Olli._

Where is he in it?

"I don't know who I was before Rammstein."

That was the truth he was afraid to admit to himself. To Richard, to the others.

"Before that, there was nothing exciting in my life. Aside from the Inchties: that could've been another pool of memories to draw from, but that's not how things turned out." Olli stares down at his drink. "I won't deny it, Risch, it bothered me. _Everyone else has a vivid history_ , I'd think to myself, _life has already shaped them into the men they are_. But what would’ve shaped _me_ , if not Rammstein? Could I have been authentic without it?"

Richard nods. Already his eyes are growing distant: it's as if Olli has _justified his fear,_ that he's alienated his bassist forever. He steps back, almost ashamed, gazing steadily ahead at the cityscape and to the end of things.

"But."

Richard looks up, surprised. "Yes?"

"I like that I’m the bassist of Rammstein." Olli says simply. "I wasn’t neglected. None of you dismissed me. Although the GDR was a powerful catalyst for memory, my memories with the band are not inferior. Your memories are not mine – and that's _fine_. While I dreamed about you all..." He trails off briefly. "You know, I dreamt your escape once."

Richard lets out a faint, fragmented laugh. "I was afraid you had."

"You lived intensely then and intensely now."

"It was nothing to learn a lesson from, Olli." Richard shakes his head, agonized. "I wasn't some grand rebel. I had enough and left. I don’t want you to be tormented by-"

"- But it happened." Olli says gently. "The lowest days, the most hopeless of dreams, and your triumph over both. It was your truth."

A hefty pause.

"Yes."

Tiered steps lead down from where they are. Olli looks down at them, then back up at Richard, before descending a step.  
Richard starts. Olli has rarely seen him this way: not merely nervous, nor vulnerable, but at even level. Olli was always the pillar which the others leant against, tall and proud, gazing down magnanimously. It's no secret Richard is beautiful, but to _face_ that fact is something else. He reaches out, remembers his hand is cold, and dares to touch the other's hand anyway.

Time doesn't operate inside as it does on the outside. In his dreams Olli witnessed every age of Rammstein, of the band and of the individuals within it – ten, twenty-four, thirty-one, and beyond it. That includes Richard. Even while unstuck in time Olli adored him, pitied him when he cried, and wanted desperately to tell him he was there.

"Everything that _is_ me is _with_ me." He lifts his hand where Richard's cheek warms it. "The same applies to you. Who _you_ became lifted me to where _I_ am. And I can't thank you enough, nor have words for how fortunate I am, that you are by my side."

The dawn is as soft as Richard’s eyes upon his. "Olli."

Olli cradles his face in his hands. "Thank you for giving me your hand, Risch. Thank you for reaching out to me. Because of you I came to terms with the laughs we shared, the tears we shed, and be glad we stayed together for all those years." A slight smile comes to his lips. "And for giving me the opportunity to do this."

"To do what?"

Olli chuckles. " _This_."

Bassists are stoic and mysterious creatures.  
Or so goes the stereotype. Olli is plenty of the latter and less the former. Yet another of his vivacious ideas sparkle inside him, one that would go nowhere were he not with Richard: he steps up, lifts Richard in his arms, and strides forth to the center of the terrace.  
Richard shouts with delight. He loves heights. Whether mid-concert in a snowy coat, or held by his tallest friend atop the tallest building in the city, it doesn't matter; he came so far, he's on top of the world, and look! - the sun's coming up.

"So bright, Olli, oh, so _bright_ ," he cries, laughing wildly. Olli embraces him where the rising star meets them across the horizon, the streetlights clicking off one by one somewhere far below. Here all the world's a stage, as Richard's heat melds into his skin; although he hasn't the voice to speak, he holds him tight to express that yes, he's all right, that everything is all right.

\-----

Flying and swimming are both weightless voids.  
Olli still struggles with the former. Sighing, he pulls up the blanket, and tries to sleep.

Chorzów to Moscow. At least the business-class cabin has oblong seats. A plus for Olli, who needs the leg room. Even so, it seems a tough ride – until he hears Schneider vacating his seat behind him, a quick shuffle, followed by a _very_ familiar warmth nuzzling into him. "Risch?"

"Hello, there." The cabin’s dark, but there's no mistaking his mischievous eyes. "Hello, you."

Instinctively, Olli moves to make room. "What about Schneider?"

"Prefers the window. _My_ seat now." Richard's voice is sleepy. His eyelashes cast fine shadows on his skin. "My miniature Hennessy can keep it for me."

Olli takes a good few seconds to understand why Richard’s keeping him company. The sky is a liminal space, as inconstant as water: just as he brought light to Olli, that night by the pool, this time he’ll come bearing the shroud of sleep. Why, he even brought an extra blanket.

Companions on both sides of reality. Olli smiles. " _Wahnsinn_."

"You forgot the ' _Der_ '," Richard mumbles faintly. When Olli pets his back, he's already asleep. Three hours to Moscow, sufficient for two REM cycles, two dreams hand-in-hand.

The vessel isn't important, as long as the essence is the same.  
He's still the same Richard. And _he's_ the same Olli. He chuckles, then kisses Richard’s forehead, gathering the past, present, and future like a soft dark cat into his arms. As they sink into the blissful dark, he knows all is well, and sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * 'Here she is, accursed Germany!': Translation of 'Вот она – проклятая Германия!', an oft-recurring message by Soviet soldiers. Signs with this message popped up on German soil frequently at the end of WWII, as you can see [here.](https://regnum.ru/pictures/2114759/52.html)  
> * 'Pionierausweis': The membership card of the [_Pionierorganisation Ernst Thälmann_](https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pionierorganisation_Ernst_Th%C3%A4lmann), a youth movement in the GDR.  
> * The scene with Richard and his lighter is inspired by [this shot](https://64.media.tumblr.com/919611a57f8dbb642be7e227c238a924/a62c9c387cc0cf15-66/s400x600/cf47a3a5b0e9f91ac9ff31c318485ec9c0a0b782.gif) from _Игла_ (1988), featuring Viktor Tsoi.  
> * 'Inchtis': The Inchtabokatables. I used this variation because this is Flake's shorthand for them in _Heute hat die Welt Geburstag_.  
> * Paul and Olli's dialogue (Ну, ты не с Рихардом разговаривал с тех пор, как мы вернулись? / Пока нет) translates to 'So, you haven't spoken with Richard since we came back?' / 'Not yet'. Would appreciate feedback on whether разговаривать is an appropriate verb; Paul's asking whether Olli and Richard had _any_ mutual conversation, not whether they had a specific topic of discussion, or said something unilaterally to the other. I'm not fluent in Russian, so I overthink and overshoot everything.  
> * 'Orgien-Olli': Olli's stage name while in The Inchtabokatables.  
> * This particular 24-hour Starbucks is located in The Place Retail Park, Milton Keynes.  
>  ~~* 6th July 2019, Stadium MK, front row. Paul's side of the stage. I was there. Give me a shout if you were ;)~~  
>  * There are two Appendices after this. Appendix I contains longer quotes/references, and II contains an essay on 'Deutschland'. These cover what I had in mind as I was writing this story; they're not necessary reads, but please feel free to explore if you wish.
> 
> Feedback is always welcome, here and on [tumblr](https://magistralucis.tumblr.com/) :D


	2. Appendix I (References)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: Quotations in this chapter are included for strictly referential purposes.**

**Palimpsest - Appendix I**

\--------------------------

This is a collection of quotes and excepts that I referenced while writing this story. Quotes are given in original language with translations underneath. Nothing here is new for the dedicated Rammstein fan, but I leave this archive here in the hopes it will be helpful to new fans, as well as anyone who'd like to pursue a particular tidbit of information.

 **⬤ Schneider on the last time he saw Aljoscha** ( _Mix Mir Einen Drink_ )

> _In der letzten Phase hab ich ihn nur noch sporadisch gesehen und da tat er mir leid. Er fing an, wirres Zeug zu erzählen, manchmal umarmte er einen und fing an zu weinen. Eine Woche, bevor er gestorben ist, hab ich ihn das allerletzte Mal gesehen. Das war in einem Café, aber er hat mich gar nicht mehr erkannt. Da stand so ein spindeldürrer Mann in seiner Piratenkluft. Ich hab überlegt, ob ich ihn anspreche, hab es aber nicht gemacht. Er hatte einen leeren Blick und sah irgendwie verabschiedet aus._

(In the last phase, I only saw him sporadically, and I felt sorry for him. He began to say nonsensical things; sometimes he would hug you and start to cry. One week before he died was when I saw him for the very last time. It was in a cafe, but he didn't even recognize me. Such a rail-thin man he was, standing there in his pirate outfit. I considered talking to him, but I didn't do so. He had a blank stare and seemed far away, somehow.)

 **⬤ Flake on the _Pionierausweis_** ([Source](https://www.rollingstone.de/rammstein-exklusives-interview-mit-till-lindemann-und-flake-lorenz-343190/#))

> _Lorenz: In unserem Pionierausweis stand als Pioniergebot, wir helfen älteren Menschen. In der Straßenbahn sind die Kinder aufgestanden, damit die Omas sich setzen konnten. Ich bin nie auf Felder gegangen, weil es hieß, dass du so volkseigenes Brot zertrittst. Davor hatten alle Respekt, dass man nichts zerstört, was für die Gemeinschaft da ist. Das fehlt jetzt total._

(Lorenz: In our _Pionierausweis_ was the Pioneer rule that we help elderly people.* On the S-Bahn, children stood up so grandmothers could sit down. I never walked on the fields, because it was said one would tread on the people's bread. Everyone used to be respectful not to destroy what belonged to the community. All that's gone now.)

[* My guess is that this was rule 6: _wir Jungpioniere achten alle arbeitenden Menschen und helfen überall tüchtig mit_ , 'we young pioneers respect all working people and help out diligently everywhere'.]

 **⬤ Flake on painting nudes** ( _Der Tastenficker_ )

> _Wie soll ich eine nackte Frau malen, wenn ich noch nie eine gesehen habe. Also gesehen habe ich schon welche, aber noch nicht in Ruhe betrachten können._

(How am I supposed to paint a naked woman, if I've never seen one before. So I've seen some women, but I haven't been able to contemplate them in peace.*)

[* Commentary underneath his own painting of a naked woman.]

 **⬤ Flake on cats** ( _Der Tastenficker_ )

> _Als meine erste Katze gestorben ist, habe ich mich richtig einsam gefühlt und alle meine Freunde gefragt, ob sie wissen, wo ich eine neue Katze herbekommen kann. Ein Freund sagte dann, er habe für mich einen Kater, ein absolutes Alphatier. Als ich ihn abholen wollte, entpuppte der Kater sich als ganz zierliches Kätzen. Ein knappes Jahr später bekam sie vom Imbisskater Junge, von denen eines leider bei mir im Klappfenster starb._

(When my first cat died, I felt very lonely, and asked all of my friends if they knew where I could get a new cat. Then a friend said he had a tomcat for me, an absolute alpha-animal. When I wanted to pick him up, the tomcat turned out to be a very petite queen cat. Barely one year later she had kittens by a tomcat, one of which sadly died in my folding window.)

 **⬤ Olli and Flake's flight phobia** ( _Heute die Welt hat Geburtstag_ )

> _Manchmal hatte er im Flugzeug auch gute Laune, dann sang er mit Grabesstimme oder warf mit Wurstscheiben. Wir warfen höflich zurück. Ich konnte dann kurz meine Flugangst vergessen. Die restliche Zeit des Fluges saß ich völlig angespannt in meinem Sitz und versuchte zu lesen. Meistens kam ich nicht über die ersten zwei Seiten. Ich versuchte jede Möglichkeit zu nutzen, um einen Flug zu umgehen, und saß dafür tagelang in irgendwelchen Bussen. Olli, der auch nicht ganz frei von Flugangst war, kam auf die Idee, gleich in seinem Wohnbus auf Tournee zu gehe [...]_

(Sometimes [Till] was in a good mood while on the plane; then he'd sing in a grave voice, or throw slices of sausage. We'd throw them back politely. Then I could, briefly, forget my fear of flying. For the rest of the flight I sat in my seat, completely tense, and tried to read. Most of the time I couldn't get past the first two pages. I tried to take every opportunity to avoid a flight, and sat for days in buses. Olli, who also wasn't entirely free from the fear of flying, had the idea of going on tour in his camper van [...])

 **⬤ Olli forgetting his birthday in Argentina** ( _Heute die Welt hat Geburtstag_ )

> _Also ging es nach Argentinien weiter [...] In Buenos Aires schlenderten wir durch die Stadt und freuten uns des Lebens. Olli vergaß sogar seinen eigenen Geburtstag. Wir dachten natürlich auch nicht daran. So etwas war damals möglich, weil wir noch keine Handys hatten. Eine unschuldige Zeit, denn in Südamerika zu spielen hieß, wirklich weit weg von zu Hause zu sein. Ich habe es in der ganzen Zeit nur einmal geschafft, von unserem Hotel aus kurz zu Hause anzurufen._

(So it went on to Argentina [...] In Buenos Aires we strolled through the city and enjoyed life. Olli even forgot his own birthday. Of course, we didn't think of it either. Back then this was possible, because we didn't have mobile phones yet. An innocent time, when playing in South America meant you were very far away from home. I only managed to call home once, briefly, from our hotel the entire time.)

 **⬤ Olli swimming to ease his nerves** ( _Heute die Welt hat Geburtstag_ )

> _Olli fragt, wer morgen mit zum Schwimmen kommen will. Der hat Nerven. Wie soll ich das jetzt schon wissen?_

(Olli asks who wants to come for a swim tomorrow. He's nervous. How am I supposed to know that now?)

 **⬤ Olli in Malta** ( _Heute die Welt hat Geburtstag_ )

> _Das Aufregendste, was uns in der Zeit passierte, war ein Besuch in der Popeye-Bucht, die so hieß, weil dort der Popeye-Film gedreht worden war [...] Wir standen ein bisschen auf dem Steg herum und bewunderten die Aussicht. Dann wurde uns kalt, und wir setzten uns ins Auto. So bekamen wir gar nicht richtig mit, dass eine Welle kam, die Olli wie eine Feder ins Meer spülte. Er kam wegen der Strömung nicht mehr zurück an Land, also durchquerte er schwimmend die ganze Bucht, um im Museumsdorf von Popeye zur Begeisterung der Kinder den Fluten zu entsteigen. Außerdem sparte er so das Eintrittsgeld._

(The most exciting thing that happened to us during that time [in Malta] was a visit to Popeye Bay,* so called because the Popeye movie was shot there [...] We stood around for a little while on the pier and admired the view. Then we became cold, and we got in the car. So we didn't really notice that a wave was coming that washed Olli into the sea like a feather. Because of the current, he could not return to land - so to escape from the tide, he swam across the entire bay, to the delight of the children in the Popeye Museum Village. He also saved the entrance fee.)

[* Anchor Bay.]

 **⬤ Richard's dealings with the Stasi** ([Source](https://www.noz.de/archiv/vermischtes/artikel/227269/rammstein-gitarrist-kruspe-ich-habe-die-stasi-ausgetrickst))

> _Q: Wurden Sie eigentlich von der Stasi observiert?_
> 
> _Richard: (lacht) Ja. Aber ich konnte die austricksen._
> 
> _Q: Wie bitte? Wie haben Sie das denn geschafft?_
> 
> _Richard: Ich habe neben meinem Beruf Musik gemacht und Schmuck hergestellt, um mein Leben zu finanzieren. Beides durfte man nicht im Osten. Die haben das über einen Spitzel herausgefunden und mich erpresst, weil ich dafür weder Steuern zahlte noch eine Facharbeiterausbildung hatte. Die Stasi stellte mich vor die Wahl: entweder IM – also inoffizieller Mitarbeiter – werden oder in den Knast gehen. Ich hatte eine Woche Bedenkzeit._
> 
> _Q: Eine Entscheidung zwischen Pest und Cholera..._
> 
> _Richard: Natürlich sollte ich absolutes Stillschweigen bewahren. Genau das habe ich aber nicht getan, sondern stattdessen diese Geschichte in meinem ganzen Bekanntenkreis verbreitet. Mit dem Hintergedanken, dass die merken sollten: Der quatscht zu viel und ist unbrauchbar. Nach einer Woche haben die mich tatsächlich in Ruhe gelassen. Ich hatte echt Glück. Später hatte ich nie den Drang herauszufinden, wer von meinen Freunden mich ausgehorcht hat. Das war Vergangenheit._

(Q: Were you actually observed by the Stasi?

Richard: (laughs) Yes. But I was able to trick them.

Q: Pardon? How did you do that?

Richard: Next to my job, I made music and crafted jewelry to financially support my life. Neither were allowed in the East. They discovered this through an informant, and blackmailed me, because I neither paid taxes nor had training as a skilled worker. The Stasi gave me a choice: either be an IM - an unofficial employee - or go to prison. I had one week to consider it.

Q: A choice between plague and cholera...

Richard: Of course, I ought to keep absolutely silent. Exactly what I didn't do: instead, I spread this story around to my entire circle of friends. The ulterior motive was that the [Stasi] should notice: he talks too much, he's useless. After one week they actually left me alone. I was truly lucky. I never had the urge, later on, to find out which of my friends had informed on me. That was in the past.)


	3. Appendix II (On 'Deutschland')

**Palimpsest - Appendix II**

\--------------------------

**Part 1. _Incognito_**

What does 'Deutschland' say to us?

Forget about the video for a moment. The live performance, too, either the remix or the 'Deutschland' proper. Yes, even the thoughts and feelings. They are important, but they are external to the song, the five minutes and twenty-three seconds of audio present in _Rammstein_ (2019) and the words sung within it. Let's leave those aside, just for a second, and look at the text. If someone with no prior exposure to Rammstein heard this - if they didn't know _anything_ about the band's past, had never seen the music video, had never heard anything else from the band - what would they hear? According to the album booklet, it's this.

_Du hast viel geweint  
Im Geist getrennt, im Herz vereint  
Wir sind schon sehr lang zusammen (ihr seid)  
Dein Atem kalt (so kalt)  
Das Herz in Flammen (so heiß)  
Du (du kannst)  
Ich (ich weiß)  
Wir (wir sind)  
Ihr (ihr bleibt)_

_Deutschland, mein Herz in Flammen  
Will dich lieben und verdammen  
Deutschland, dein Atem kalt  
So jung und doch so alt  
Deutschland_

_Ich (du hast)  
Ich will dich nie verlassen (du weinst)  
Man kann dich lieben (du liebst)  
Und will dich hassen (du hast)  
Überheblich, überlegen  
Übernehmen, übergeben  
Überraschen, überfallen  
Deutschland, Deutschland über allen_  
.  
.  
.  
.

_Deutschland, mein Herz in Flammen  
Will dich lieben und verdammen  
Deutschland, dein Atem kalt  
So jung und doch so alt  
Deutschland, deine Liebe  
Ist Fluch und Segen  
Deutschland, meine Liebe  
Kann ich dir nicht geben  
Deutschland_

_Du  
Ich  
Wir  
Ihr  
Übermächtig, überflüssig  
Übermenschen, überdrüssig  
Wer hoch steigt, der wird tief fallen  
Deutschland, Deutschland über allen_

_Deutschland, dein Herz in Flammen  
Will dich lieben und verdammen  
Deutschland, mein Atem kalt  
So jung und doch so alt  
Deutschland, deine Liebe  
Ist Fluch und Segen  
Deutschland, meine Liebe  
Kann ich dir nicht geben  
Deutschland_

Including all the blank lines, the left column takes up 24 lines of space, and the right 28.  
I'm not yet invested in what those lyrics mean, more in the fact _this is objectively not what we hear_. This is the actual sum of words in this song, with the additions underlined.

_Du ( du hast, du hast, du hast, du hast)  
Hast viel geweint (geweint, geweint, geweint, geweint)  
Im Geist getrennt (getrennt, getrennt, getrennt, getrennt)  
Im Herz vereint (vereint, vereint, vereint, vereint)  
Wir (wir sind, wir sind, wir sind, wir sind)  
Sind schon sehr lang zusammen (ihr seid, ihr seid, ihr seid, ihr seid)  
Dein Atem kalt (so kalt, so kalt, so kalt, so kalt)  
Das Herz in Flammen (so heiß, so heiß, so heiß, so heiß)  
Du (du kannst, du kannst, du kannst, du kannst)  
Ich (ich weiß, ich weiß, ich weiß, ich weiß)  
Wir (wir sind, wir sind, wir sind, wir sind)  
Ihr (ihr bleibt, ihr bleibt, ihr bleibt, ihr bleibt)_

_Deutschland, mein Herz in Flammen  
Will dich lieben und verdammen  
Deutschland, dein Atem kalt  
So jung und doch so alt  
Deutschland_

_Ich (du hast, du hast, du hast, du hast)  
Ich will dich nie verlassen (du weinst, du weinst, du weinst, du weinst)  
Man kann dich lieben (du liebst, du liebst, du liebst, du liebst)  
Und will dich hassen (du hast, du hast, du hast, du hast)*  
Überheblich, überlegen)  
Übernehmen, übergeben)  
Überraschen, überfallen)  
Deutschland, Deutschland über allen)_  
.

_Deutschland, mein Herz in Flammen  
Will dich lieben und verdammen  
Deutschland, dein Atem kalt  
So jung und doch so alt  
Deutschland, deine Liebe  
Ist Fluch und Segen  
Deutschland, meine Liebe  
Kann ich dir nicht geben  
Deutschland_

_Du  
Ich  
Wir  
Ihr  
(Du) Übermächtig, überflüssig  
(Ich) Übermenschen, überdrüssig  
(Wir) Wer hoch steigt, der wird tief fallen  
(Ihr) Deutschland, Deutschland über allen_

_Deutschland, dein Herz in Flammen  
Will dich lieben und verdammen  
Deutschland, mein Atem kalt  
So jung und doch so alt  
Deutschland, deine Liebe  
Ist Fluch und Segen  
Deutschland, meine Liebe  
Kann ich dir nicht geben  
Deutschland_

The part following ' _und will dich hassen_ ' is printed 'du hast' in the lyrics; thematically 'hasst' seems more appropriate, but I suspect this is deliberate.

Now that's more evened out. Keeping the two-column structure, and starting both columns on the same lines, we get 27 lines on the left and 28 lines on the right. It's also immediately obvious that the bracketed parts gain significantly in volume. We hear much more in the background than the official lyrics would have us believe, and it's that I'd like to talk about. The unrepresented, the unknown, yet unquestionably real.

You could say I'm approaching 'Deutschland' from the _sleep-side_.

**Part 2. _Fremdheit_**

Here are the background parts without brackets and repetitions. I've added the translation for ease of parsing.

**[A]**

_du hast / geweint / getrennt / vereint  
wir sind / ihr seid / so kalt / so heiß  
du kannst / ich weiß / wir sind / ihr bleibt_

**[B]**

_du hast / du weinst / du liebst / du ha(s)st_

**[C]**

_du / ich / wir / ihr_

**[A]**

you have / wept / separated / united  
we are / you-all are / so cold / so hot  
you can / I know / we are / you-all stay

**[B]**

you have / you weep / you love / you ha(v/t)e

**[C]**

you / I / we / you-all

Sections A/B/C are separated by the chorus. They lessen in content as they go, but without losing vital information.

Let's look at A first. The background parts here largely follow Till's lines, especially at the beginning. There the echo is identical, to the extent it doesn't even show in the official lyrics. It's only two lines down the background announces itself, in a sudden and startling opposition: _**wir sind** schon sehr lang zusammen ( **ihr seid** )_. This looks absurd in the official lyrics, because it doesn't show the ' _wir (wir sind, wir sind, wir sind, wir sind)_ ' part, but it makes sense. How can We be together - indeed, how can We call ourselves a We, if You All do not belong with Us at the same time?

That 'wir sind-ihr seid' relation is at the heart of those three lines. On one hand, it points to the fundamental binary opposition of the first and second persons, which is important throughout sections A-C and 'Deutschland' as a whole. On the other hand, I'm reminded of the rallying cry over the 1989/1990 East German protests: _Wir sind ein Volk!_ The 'separated/united' binary allows us to make that connection - not to mention the second instance of 'wir sind' in A ties into 'ihr bleibt', 'you-all stay'. We are one people, and therefore, You All - whether from the East or West - stay.

This callback to the German past also calls back to Rammstein's own. Historically, but also textually. Section B irons out all other subjects other than 'du', and according to the official lyrics, _immediately_ takes the opportunity to return to the 'hast/hasst' debate. People have discussed the ambiguities of 'Du hast' for over twenty years; I need not elaborate, except speculate this is why Rammstein didn't print 'du hasst' in the booklet.

Who knows, maybe they _did_ mean 'du hast'. But the ambiguous Rammstein is the one we know and love.

The _format_ of the background parts, in conjunction with the main vocals, also call back to their older songs. The ' _du kannst... ihr bleibt_ ' vocals echo the call-and-response pattern Till and Richard engage in 'Asche zu Asche':

_Warmer Körper → (Warmer Körper)  
Heißes Kreuz → (Heißes Kreuz)  
Falsches Urteil → (Falsches Urteil)  
Kaltes Grab → (Kaltes Grab)_

_Du → (du kannst, du kannst, du kannst, du kannst)  
Ich → (ich weiß, ich weiß, ich weiß, ich weiß)  
Wir → (wir sind, wir sind, wir sind, wir sind)  
Ihr → (ihr bleibt, ihr bleibt, ihr bleibt, ihr bleibt)_

In this pattern, the background vocals come solidly after Till's. The reverse (Till after the background vocals) also exists, notably in 'Du riechst so gut' and 'Sonne':

 ~~[Sexy motherfucker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mqGAokNRFI8)~~ _(Der Wahnsinn) → Ist nur eine schmale Brücke [...]_

_(Eins) → Hier kommt die Sonne  
(Zwei) → Hier kommt die Sonne  
(Drei) → Sie ist der hellste Stern von allen  
(Vier ) → Hier kommt die Sonne_

Both patterns have in common that the first voice _provides the argument_ the second repeats or expands on. They do not sing at the same time, but what they're singing is linked. In most Rammstein songs, the background vocals tend to meld with Till's own, or stand completely apart from it (e.g. the ' _ra-di-o... radio_ ' bridge in 'Radio'), so it's very noticeable when they play off one another.

'Deutschland' takes this trope and subverts it, stepping up from their past. Aside from the ' _du kannst... ihr bleibt_ ' part, Till sings _past_ the background vocals in most other instances, _without_ waiting for a particular line or phrase to resolve. Richard is still singing 'so kalt' by the time Till's introduces the heart on fire:

_Dein Atem kalt (so kalt, so kalt, so kalt **[das He-]** so kalt **[-rz in Flammen]** so heiß, so heiß, so heiß, so heiß)_

The call-and-response is broken. The argument never resolves, because one voice is always speeding ahead of the other, or one voice is always echoing the other from behind. The main lyrics cover so many topics, and the subject keeps changing from You to I to We and You All, but _it's all the same argument_. We don't finish with the warm body so we can move on to the hot cross. What's outside the brackets interacts endlessly with what's inside the brackets, never quite letting go, whether you see the brackets or not. This is taken to its logical extreme in Section C:

_**(Du)** Übermächtig, überflüssig  
**(Ich)** Übermenschen, überdrüssig  
**(Wir)** Wer hoch steigt, der wird tief fallen  
**(Ihr)** Deutschland, Deutschland über allen_

This is not the same pattern the chorus of 'Sonne' follows, in that the background parts don't introduce Till's vocals. They occur at the same time, You and I and We and You All echoing _through_ the lines rather than before. 'Du-Ich-Wir-Ihr' can thus be read _with_ the main argument - _we_ , who climb high, will fall deep; _you_ , Germany, are above all - and are in themselves the perfect distillation of what 'Deutschland' is about.  
There are no definite third-person subjects in 'Deutschland'. No He, She, nor They. There is only You and I, and sometimes, there are many of You and many of Me. You are overpowering but superfluous, I am beyond-man and sick to the death of it. We climb high but don't want to climb You All, who are above everything, in the fear We will fall deep. We are of the same essence but want to deny that. ' _Deutschland, Deutschland über allen_ ' is a wretched sentence. It represents everything about Germany we don't want to partake in. It's the dark side of Germany, the unseen side, the sleep-side.

We dread that void. Ich and Wir dread the Du and the Ihr, who are not us, but irrevocably part of us at the same time. Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.

So is Otherness.

**Part 3. _Lacunae_**

You and I could not exist without the void between us. It doesn't matter what we call the void, only that it exists.

There has to be _something_ setting You and I apart; otherwise, we would just be the same exact thing, and the You-I distinction would be meaningless. Something is not nothing. Epistemologically, one might call that something _the problem of other minds_ : a person has access to their own thoughts ('privileged access'), but not to other people's, which creates uncertainties about what other people are thinking, if they are indeed thinking, or if they even exist at all. Sociology might tell us we are set apart by our culture, the way we are nurtured, or our _habitus_. Religiously, it might be an issue of faith. We all agree we are separate, but we have no one answer as to why.

'Deutschland' isn't interested in the idea of naming the void, nor where it is, nor how to come to terms with it - only that it's there.  
But Rammstein do provide some suggestions, and it's with them I want to close this essay. There are two songs on this album which deal explicitly with strangers, and they both take place at night.

**[ _Ausländer_ ]**

 _Und wenn die Sonne untergeht  
Und man vor Ausländerinnen steht  
Ist es von Vorteil, wenn man dann  
Sich verständlich machen kann  
[...]  
Ich bleibe höchstens ein, zwei Stunden  
Bevor die Sonne wieder lacht  
[...]  
Ich bin Ausländer_

 **[Foreigner]**

And when the sun goes down  
And one stands before foreigners  
It is beneficial, if one then  
can make oneself understood  
[...]  
I'll stay at most an hour or two  
Before the sun laughs again  
[...]  
I am a foreigner

Foreigners are a perfect example of the Other. They are outside of the land, outside of culture, outside of everything knowable to those on the inside. In 'Ausländer', _I_ am the Other to those I meet, and the gulf between I and Them is extremely obvious. What's more, this void only opens 'when the sun goes down', and fades when it comes back up. Strangers are things that go bump in the night.

**[ _Radio_ ]**

 _Jenes Liedgut war verboten  
So gefährlich fremde Noten  
[...]  
Jede Nacht und wieder flieg  
Ich einfach fort mit der Musik  
Schwebe so durch alle Räume  
Keine Grenzen, keine Zäune_

 **[Radio]**

Those were forbidden kinds of songs  
So dangerous, those foreign notes  
[...]  
Every night I fly again  
I simply take off with the music  
Floating through all the rooms  
No borders, no fences

But that's not necessarily a bad thing.

This time, the 'fremde Noten' are the Other to myself. In the context of 'Radio', this means Western music, and the gulf between Them and I are defined by geographical location. I (i.e. Rammstein) in the East, the music from the West. Here, too, we only interact at night. But 'Radio' shows us an affirmative perspective: not only do we not approach the Other with hostility, we almost seem to meld together. Bumping into each other in the night, perhaps, is what helps us ascertain who we are.

I think we do this very often.  
Sure, most of us don't listen to politically forbidden songs at night. (Disclaimer: depends on where you are and when you were born.) But it is built into the essential human experience that we throw ourselves into the night, and within that void, engage with things we are not familiar with. We might not remember what those things were, but it is always there, and we must engage in it in order to be ourselves.

We sleep. We dream. Sleep is a gap in which something and nothing happens at the same time.

**Conclusion. _Semicentennial_**

This is the point I reached in my thought process before I wrote the story. I'll stop here.  
I was constantly haunted by the halfway-ness of things.

'Deutschland' is a song about being caught halfway, so I latched onto that immediately. Sleep is a halfway point between living and not living; dreams are a halfway point between waking and sleeping; the Berlin Wall was a halfway point between East and West Germany. All of that made it in. Most importantly, I was requested an Olli/Richard - and whatever lies halfway between _them_ , past and present and future, had to be the meat of this story.

As of 2020, Olli is nearing his half-centennial point. The only person lingering on that boundary, in fact, the rest are already past fifty. Fifty years can dig a very deep hole. Enough to plunge you into a crisis in the middle of your life. Although he and Richard are the Other to each other, the things they talk about, and the moments they share, fill in the void between them.

That's all I wanted to write about, really. I hope you enjoyed it.  
Thank you, Wahnsinn, for making this possible.


End file.
